Southern Haunts (18 page)

As Max pulled up the drive, he saw an open field in his rear view mirror. It looked to be several acres before the city continued on with more warehouses and other industrial buildings.

Max shut off the car but did not get out. He watched the warehouse. “I thought we were going to a cemetery.”

“This is where Floyd Johnson was buried. He never got a real grave. He died in the early 1900s. Back then, this was mostly fields. Over time, the city built up and on top of him.”

“Please tell me Floyd isn’t Native American. This isn’t something like an Indian burial ground.”

Drummond snickered. “No. Back in those days, lots of people got buried out in the woods or where there weren’t many homes. Cheaper than a cemetery.”

“You said he died tragically. What happened to him out here?”

“My informants said he died tragically, but nobody could tell me how.”

“Then how can they know it was tragic?”

“Because he won’t move on, yet he’s hiding in the middle of this warehouse. Something bad had to have happened to him.”

“Yeah. I suppose. You know, this place looks like it’s actively being used. You have a plan for how we’re going to get in there and talk to Floyd?”

“We sneak in, of course. I’ll go through the wall, unlock a door for you, we go on in. He should be hanging out in the middle of warehouse B, which is filled with boxes, crates, that kind of thing. Long as we keep it mostly quiet, nobody’s going to know we’re there.”

“You’ve already checked the place out?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“So you keep telling me. Okay, since you’ve done the reconnaissance, do we have to worry about surveillance cameras or anything like that?”

“As long as the doors are opened from the inside, they don’t trip the alarm. If you open them from the outside, you’ve got about thirty seconds to punch in a code. But I’ll be opening the door for you, so there won’t be any problem. You’re going to be fine.”

“Somehow you don’t instill me with great confidence.”

While Drummond flew through the building, Max scurried up the drive. Cars rolled by on the main road behind him. Though none of the cars stopped, though nobody jumped out and yelled
Hey, what are you doing?
Max still felt as if a giant, neon sign flashed an arrow over him with the word CRIMINAL emblazoned upon its side. He wished he had waited until the night for this excursion, but had he done that, he would have been facing a ghost in the dark. Perhaps this way was better.

Up ahead a side door opened outward. Max’s blood paused until he saw Drummond step forward. The ghost held the door and gestured Max in.

“Anytime now,” Drummond grunted.

Other than the strain in Drummond’s voice, Max saw no sign of the pain the ghost endured. Touching the corporeal world always brought with it burning agony. Max jogged ahead and slid in past the ghost.

When the door closed, only sunlight illuminated the warehouse; however, stacked crates blocked most of the windows, cutting the light further. Dust clouded the little light that managed to break through.

“Stay close so you don’t get lost.” Drummond floated ahead. Though his pale skin glowed in the darkness, he shed no light on the surroundings. As Max followed his partner deeper into the warehouse, the limited light dimmed even more. Glancing down some pathways, all Max saw was darkness. Without warning, Drummond halted, and Max nearly walked through the ghost.

Drummond put a finger to his lips. “He’s right up ahead.”

Of course, Max saw nothing. But long ago, he had decided that seeing one ghost was more than enough. Drummond flew over a section of the boxed-in corridor. He dropped down with fists on hips, facing Max. “Floyd Johnson, I get the feeling you’re trying to avoid me.” Drummond’s smarmy face dropped. “He’s running Max. Stop him!”

Before Max could point out the idiocy of Drummond’s command, he felt ice pass straight through his body, prickling his skin and numbing his teeth — Floyd Johnson had just zipped by. Drummond dashed through a wall of crates. From a distance, Max heard, “This way, Max. Follow me. Follow my voice. I need your help.”

Max tore off into the darkness, following every time Drummond cried out his name. He had no clue what he could do to help, but for the moment, he simply followed in a bizarre version of Marco Polo.

“This way, Max, this way! Come on, Floyd. Stop making this so hard. We just want to talk. Max, over here!”

Max sprinted down one corridor and up another — and twice found himself facing a dead end. All the time, Drummond continued to shout his name and that of Floyd Johnson. Max raced back and opted on a different direction, hoping to meet up with Drummond fast. Up ahead, he caught sight of an open crate with a crowbar leaning against it and a black Sharpie balanced on the top edge. The crowbar wouldn’t help fighting a ghost. But a Sharpie — that gave Max an idea.

With marker in hand, he ran harder, cutting down one direction than another, until he finally reached Drummond. His partner hovered at the opposite end of a small clearing with a worktable set to the side. From Drummond’s pose, Max had a pretty good idea that Floyd Johnson stood in the middle — between them all.

“Come on, pal. We only want to talk,” Drummond said.

Max uncapped the marker. He drew a circle on the side of the nearest crate and filled it in with gibberish symbols. “Floyd, that there’s a holding sigil. You can ask Drummond how nasty that can be. You can get near this, now, without it causing a lot of pain. But if I have to, I’ll put the final mark on it, and you’ll be sorry.”

Drummond nodded. “You don’t want to mess with Max. He’s very talented with magic.” Drummond’s smile disappeared into a cold, hard expression. “Floyd says you may be strong with magic, but you ain’t as strong as the Hulls.”

Max’s throat tightened. He moved a few steps closer. “Let us help you. We promise we’ll protect you from the Hulls.”

“That’s right,” Drummond said. “You can trust us. Whatever they got to do with this, we can handle it.” Drummond listened for a moment, then continued, “No, no. You can believe me. That there is Max Porter. Now, look at me, Floyd. The Hulls cursed me, but I’m free thanks to that guy. He’s not afraid of them. He’s stood up to them many times before. But we can’t help you if you clam up. We’ve got to know your side of this, what your involvement is.”

Max waited in the ghostly silence as Floyd responded. After a while, Drummond looked straight at Max. “You are not going to believe this.”

Chapter 21

On June 3, 1898,
Floyd Johnson considered himself to be one of the luckiest black men alive — he had been hired by The Casper Company to work in their warehouses, helping ship crates of whiskey. Besides being better than any job Floyd had ever had, it got him away from the back-breaking labor of the tobacco fields. For a man whose parents had been plantation slaves, this job meant a promotion to a better life for him, potential to provide for a wife, and possibly even enough money for a child.

Not two months in, he met Milton Hull. (
Max raised an eyebrow. “Another Hull?” Drummond shrugged. “It’s Winston-Salem. You’ll always hit into the Hulls.”)
Milton was a sharp-looking man with slicked hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He moved with confidence like a movie star who knew everyone watched him and wanted to be like him. At the same time, there was a weakness just behind that mustache. A trembling child within him. Whenever he let a glimpse of that truth slip through, he lost all of his swagger for a few seconds.

Floyd had always been a quick-witted fellow, and Milton liked that. He also liked that Floyd would do most of the heavy lifting in the warehouse.

At lunchtime, the two would often share beers on the rooftop. The entire time, Floyd would be nervous and uncomfortable. White people never treated a man like Floyd this way, and if anyone else in the city found out, it could be dangerous — even deadly. However, this particular white man had the name Hull, and that changed a lot in the equation. Floyd knew that the Hulls were good friends to have. Obviously, Milton was learning from the ground up so that he could be involved in management in the years to come. Though Floyd never saw another Hull, he figured Casper must have struck a deal, either for money or influence, and Milton’s employment was part of the deal.

As their lunches became more frequent, Milton opened up more of his life. He revealed that his connection to the Hull family came via a cousin to those in power. No Hulls controlled The Casper Company. Milton had applied for the job on his own. He planned to learn the whiskey business so that he could start his own company sometime down the road.

“See here, Floyd,” Milton said, smoothing down his mustache. “The Hull family, they like the male bloodline. And I’m a cousin through my mother. You understand? My last name — it ain’t even really Hull. It’s Smalls. So, the main family probably ain’t too happy with me using their name. I say screw ‘em. I’m learning the whiskey trade fast, and when I can, I’m going to break away from this joint and start my own whiskey trade. And I want you to come with me.”

It wasn’t until 1900 that Milton found his opportunity. All during those two years, he worked on Floyd and when the time came, he had convinced Floyd to join. For Floyd, the decision was monumental. Giving up a job that had provided him much — only three months earlier, he had married Priscilla Kumsar, and they hoped to have a baby soon. Not that that made for the best time to leave, but Milton promised great success and a higher position — running the entire warehouse. That was more than Floyd ever imagined achieving in his life, so he grabbed the opportunity.

Milton never revealed his full plan until they both had quit — an unpleasant affair but with the result that The Casper Company promised they would never work in the whiskey business again. That first night, as they operated their still in the woods north of downtown Winston-Salem, Milton produced a crate full of empty, blue Casper bottles. He then explained that magic — witchcraft — was a real thing. The Hull family had access to witches, and though Milton’s low standing in the family prevented him from directly using these magical women, he had certainly learned a lot from them over the years. He knew a spell or two.

Using witch’s magic, he planned to infuse the Casper bottles with a spell that would make their backwoods swill taste better than all others. They would call it the Casper Special to piggyback sales right off those jerks who had tried to screw him over.

Floyd’s parents had raised him with a strong religious background. Talks of magic spells and witchcraft scared him worse than the threat of white-hooded men burning down his house in the middle of the night. (
“It was right then, I knew I was working for the Devil,” Floyd told Max and Drummond.
) He thought about backing out, leaving Milton and his scheme, but where could he go?

He had a wife and soon a child. The only skill he had was working in the whiskey trade which the Casper folk promised he would never do again. The only other option that remained involved long, hot sweaty days in a backbreaking tobacco field. Not wanting even to contemplate that life, he stayed with Milton Hull, convincing himself that he could maintain the balancing act between keeping a job and keeping his distance from the Devil.

For two years, they succeeded in their endeavor. Casper Special sold well and the Casper Company never found out. Mostly because Prohibition made it easy to keep such things secret. Only select blind tigers knew about Floyd and Milton’s company, and they knew only to deal with Floyd. Besides, everybody made so much money off this magic booze, they didn’t want to cause problems. (
Max pointed out Prohibition was still a few years away in North Carolina, but Floyd explained that while the laws had not changed things yet, the dry chill of the Prohibitionists had already entered the state. The blind tigers wouldn’t get their moniker for years still, but that’s how Floyd thought of them.
)

As the year progressed, Floyd noticed that these spells Milton cast did more than simply alter the harsh taste of their whiskey. Milton tried to use magic to manipulate people — everybody from women to bartenders to distributors — but he lacked the skill of a trained witch. Some who drank from the bottles went insane and killed themselves. Some attacked others. In fact, Milton died trying to cast magic on the bottles.

Chapter 22

Floyd’s demeanor darkened.
“That’s all I’ve got to say. Now, let me go.”

Max checked with Drummond, and upon receiving an affirmative nod, he scribbled over his fake sigil. Floyd wasted no time. He vanished.

Drummond patted his chest. “Didn’t I tell you I’d get you somewhere with this case?”

“I’ll hand it to you. You came through. Now, how about you help me find my way out of this place?”

Twenty minutes later, Max sat behind his office desk while Drummond floated near the bookshelves. Sandra had returned and lay on the couch. Max relayed all they had learned.

“And that,” Drummond said, “is why you folks need a guy like me. We detectives know how to get the real scoop.”

“Okay, Mr. Brilliant Detective,” Max said, “how do you solve the glaring gap in all of this?”